


What I Meant To Say

by sherlwatson (bakers_impala221)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Compliant, Canon Related, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Confessions, Death, Depression, Drugs, Gay, Johnlock - Freeform, Letters, Love, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Magnussen, Major character death - Freeform, Marriage, Overdose, Regret, Reichenbach memories, Romance, Soulmates, Suicide, The Tarmac Scene (Sherlock), Tragedy, True Love, Two-Parts, major angst, suicide note, tragic, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-15 12:21:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11805906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/sherlwatson
Summary: Sherlock writes his suicide letter to confess to John, set on the plane after The Tarmac Scene





	1. What I Meant To Say

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Letters, the Writing Of](https://archiveofourown.org/works/570058) by [earlgreytea68](https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68). 



> A fanfic I wrote early this morning :)  
> This was inspired by the work of earlgreytea68's 'Letters, the Writing of' so credits to them for the general idea, and thank you for inspiring me to write this :D  
> I apologise for incorrect characterisation or errors,  
> I hope you enjoy!

Dear John,

 

  In truth, I’m not entirely sure where to begin, so I suppose I’ll start with this:

  It’s so lonely being here, knowing that you and I will never meet again.

  I now sit in this massive plane, all alone, just a pen and a piece of paper and the intention of confession to what I never said.

  I, despite my best efforts, somehow failed to keep you safe. I now pay the price for that mistake.

  I want to believe that what I did will pay off, but I know that it hasn’t. All I can do now is pray to all higher beings I know do not exist, that she will choose what is right, over what she wants, and hope she appreciates all she can now have, that I cannot.

  Mary never deserved you, but at least she deserved you more than I do.

 

  John, you are the bravest of all the people I have ever met. I will never forget your kindness and I’ll never forget your strength. You carried me through more than I could have ever survived alone. You sometimes made me almost believe that I never deserved the name _Freak_ , because you always brought out the good in me I genuinely didn’t know I had.

  I _care_ now.

  I always cared that people never accepted me; I always despised the name-calling and the hatred; it always hurt. So it never seemed to make any difference whether or not I was alive. It didn’t matter to me whether or not I left or stayed.

  But now it does.

  I don’t want to leave you. Not again, not like this.

  I hated having to look into your face and conceal the emotions I have had all my life, but that you taught me how to accept and embrace.

  I owe you so much, and I gave you nothing but pain.

 

  I want to say that I hope you can have a happy life, I wish I could tell you that you and Mary deserve each other and the happiness that you could have together. But for once, I am trying to tell you the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. So, here:

 

  I cannot leave you.

  I cannot live knowing that I will never see you again.

  You not only bring out the best in me, but you truly make me want to live. Without that, I have no incentive to keep breathing or thinking or living.

  Where they are sending me, John, I will not survive.

  I told you it would not last more than six months, but you misunderstood me. I meant that I would die within that time limit.

  I wanted to say that, I wanted to tell you where I was going, and how I was never coming back, but I couldn’t face putting you through that pain all over again.

  Knowing you were never going to see me again would be easier than knowing I was going to die.

  I wish I could say that I am to be faithful to that, but I now find myself writing this letter and confessing to you all I ever wanted to say, and I’m so sorry for it, but this is a part of that confession.

  So I think I should tell you that I’m not going to go.

  I am currently high, well past what my body could ever handle, and soon I will overdose.

  No matter what happens, I will be dead before this plane lands; I will be dead by the time you read this.

  Sorry to put this so bluntly, but I fear my vision and mind are starting to fade, and I estimate that I have barely another five minutes left of consciousness to complete this letter.

 

  Mary isn’t good.

  I’m sorry that I ever tried to convince you otherwise, and I know that saying this now could likely put you in danger when and if you ever read this, but I think you deserve to know that she isn’t safe and will put you and your child in danger for the rest of your lives. Her history as an assassin makes her a target until the moment she is killed, and will continue to put her family at risk, even after that. John, she will die soon, and I can’t bear to think of how you’ll end up; alone and lost all over again.

 

  With that said, I am almost slipping away now, I should hurry.

 

  On the tarmac, I was going to say something, John, and in truth, I think you already know what it was.

 

  I’m currently dying and I’m all alone and faced with the prospect of never seeing you again. And I can’t handle the pain that will come within the next few minutes of my life as the drugs finally take their effect.

  I have my phone in my hand, opened to your blog entry of the day we first met, in the hopes that when I lose consciousness, I shall dream of you in order to ease the pain, or to hear your voice one more time, to comfort me as I die. Maybe in this place we will have what I regret to say I always wanted.

  I’m scared.

  Have I ever told you that before? I probably haven’t, but right now I’m not sure there’s any way to tell. My mind isn’t working properly, I can’t seem to remember things, specific things that I ought to know. There was something about coffee. You didn’t like the coffee.

  Although I do remember this. And I may or may not have told you, but in case I haven’t, I should say now: I found your blog entry earlier than I ever said, did you know? I wanted to keep it as “an experiment” to see how long you would go without realising I had discovered it. It was only when you started dating the doctor from your ridiculous clinic, and I had given up on waiting for you to pursue any kind of relationship with me, that I decided to let you know I had found your blog.

  Of course, my saying this is just an attempt to delay the inevitable; the true reason I must write this to you, whether or not you will ever receive and read it. However I will die assuming you will in order to put my mind a little at ease. Though, on reflection, I’m not entirely sure whether the prospect of you reading this, or not reading this, is worse, knowing the pain it will likely cause you, and _I’m so sorry._

 

  Before I confess what I truly need to say, I’d like to tell you this, too.

  At my grave, you told me that I was the best _human, human being_ that you’ve ever known.

  So, John, I should say…

  Yes, _I am human_ ; you were _right_.

  I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, but sometimes I just think that perhaps we all really are human in the end.

  And obviously we are all biologically human, and there is nothing that can be done to change that, but I mean… we all feel things we don’t want to feel, and experience the things we never want to experience, and that these things are as inevitable and unchangeable as the fact that no matter what, we are _literally_ human. But currently I am faced with everything I don’t want to be, and I’m sitting here as my consciousness fades (I estimate two minutes remain) and I’m trying not to cry because _I don’t want this._ And it’s all this, that makes me truly understand what it is to be human and what it is to love and be loved.

  I suppose I’ll never know truly if anything I felt was requited. I thought that perhaps it could have been, but then you went and bloody married someone else, and I finally understood that I’m nothing compared to a life of normality. But then that “normal life” was ruined by your “normal wife” and I thought that maybe that would mean you could leave her, because she failed to fulfil the purpose of adding normalcy to your routine, but because you’re _John_ ; because you’re _you,_ you remained as faithful as the day you fucking met her and I know now that _there was nothing I could have ever done to change that, because you always loved her, and don’t love me._

  And that’s fine.

 

  I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that I now create this burden to your life, because now you have to live with the fact that I loved you more than I should have, and in a way that I shouldn’t have, and I hate myself for it and I’m sorry, but I loved you and loved you and loved you and I still do and I think you need to know that because right now it seems to be the only thing that matters in the world.

  Because John Watson you are the love of my life and I need you in order to keep living and breathing and existing and there’s nothing left for me if you aren’t here to save me.

  I am so in love with you.

  I am so in love with you that it hurts to breathe.

 

  I need you I need you I need you, John.

  You taught me that it’s okay to feel, and that it’s okay to love. I no longer regret feeling love, and the only thing I will ever regret was loving you wrong.

 

  I’m sorry.

  I suppose I could simply not write this. I suppose I could live in the comfort of knowing that I will die, and you won’t know it this time, so that this time you’ll be able to move on. But somehow I find myself overwhelmed with the need to tell you because I know that you do and don’t deserve to know how much I love you and how much I have always loved you.

 

  So now I sit on this plane, at the edge of this overdose, and I know that nothing will ever be okay again, because here is the place I will die; sitting in this seat, with the hand that held yours on my face; against my mouth, because I know that is the closest I will ever come to kissing you, and I know that holding your hand within mine was the closest I’ll ever come to holding you.

  This is the most intimacy I will ever allow myself to have, because had I kissed you, I know I would not have left you there on the tarmac, and I may have been foolish enough to bring you with me. But that is not a possibility I will ever allow myself to consider now because it will only hurt and I’m already in enough pain.

 

  I can’t express in words the love I have and always will have, for you.

  No action could explain, either.

  I love you so much.

  And I’m so sorry, John.

  I’m so sorry.

 

Yours, truly,

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes_

 

P.S. Live on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope it was somewhat bearable to read.  
> I apologise for any incorrect characterisation of Sherlock. I know that I tend to write him a bit more emotional than most people view him, but I have the wrong mindset for a purely analytical mind and honestly, I see him as a lot more emotional than most people.
> 
> (Edit: turns out I am a more logical than emotional thinker. Will you look at that: self-discovery xD )
> 
> Also, I'd appreaciate feedback, so either comment in the comments, or DM me through Instagram (@bakers_impala221) to give advice on what I could have done better :)  
> Don't be too harsh though, as I said, I did write this at 1 am this morning :D


	2. The Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tarmac Scene -John's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a second part to my story.  
>  I feel a bit conflicted because I kind of want to leave the letter as it was, because that's all this fanfiction was originally meant to be, but I got requests just after I wrote the last chapter, to write another part, and I thought, 'well, I suppose I could try to do that.'  
>  I don't think how it turned out was even remotely what I was expecting (I had a different plan, but this works better) and I don't think anything else I can write is going to turn out any better, so I apologize in advance to those who were expecting a better ending, but seriously, I think the last chapter was more of a fluke, so please don't be too harsh with your criticism, as actual narrative writing really is not my strong suit. (I barely know if what I'm writing actually makes sense, half the time)
> 
> If you feel that the ending of the letter was ideal, then don't feel you need to read this, but if you feel you do need some sort of ending, here it is:

  In the space of half an hour, John had experienced so many emotions that he felt he couldn’t breathe anymore.

  For days, John had been forced into waiting patiently as his best friend sat in an isolated cell, waiting for his fate to be decided by his older brother.

  Then John got the news that they were exiling him and he was stuck and at a complete loss as to what to do.

  What _do_ you do when your best friend is leaving?

 

  So the day had come far, far too quickly; the days of anticipation flashing by in a heartbeat, and John found himself face to face with Sherlock Holmes for what he knew was going to be the last time ever.

  He knew what he wanted to say, the words rested on the tip of his tongue,

                _Thank you; I owe you everything; stay; don’t leave me; I love you._

  But his mouth refused to form the words his heart told him to; he couldn’t speak, he didn’t know how to say it. No one had ever prepared him for this… this _bizarre_ situation.

  Besides, how do you tell your best friend that you love him? Especially when married to a _woman_.

  It was absurd, and insane and impossible.

  So instead, he found himself saying,

                “The game is over.”

  Because it was.

  Because this was the last time he was going to see him and he knew this was where everything fell apart. No love confession, no dramatic escape, just the simple goodbye and parting of friends. Because that’s all they ever were, and ever would have been.

  But then for an instant, Sherlock gave him hope; an incredulous look and a simple,

                “The game is never over, John.”

  And for a second John thought that meant he wasn’t going to leave.

                “There may be some new players now, that’s okay.”

  And just like that John’s world fell apart all over again.

  And then Sherlock fixed him with this _look_ , and John found himself holding his breath, his heart racing at a hundred beats per second, hammering against his chest and loudly in his ears. Then Sherlock spoke,

                “John, there’s… something I should say, I’ve meant to say always and I never have. Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again I might as well say it now…”

  And John could swear the world had swallowed him. He was falling, he wasn’t breathing, his heart was racing so quickly he felt faint, and everything was deadly silent for a moment, before Sherlock looked straight into his eyes and he felt grounded once more, and he was breathing and hearing again as Sherlock confessed-

                “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

  And everything stopped.

 

  His ears were ringing loudly, his breaths were ragged and painful in his throat and chest and his eyes weren’t focusing on anything as he turned away and laughed, saying, “It’s not.”

                “It was worth a try.”

  And then John understood.

                “We’re not naming our daughter after you.”

                “It think it could work.”

  John turned back to look him straight in the eye, to find the hidden mirth he didn’t hear in his voice. But there wasn’t any.

  Instead, Sherlock gave him a sad, but knowing smile and took off his glove, holding out his hand in front of him.

                “To the very best of times, John,” was the only thing he could hear, the rest of the world having evaporated a long time ago.

  He wasn’t breathing.

  He held out his hand and took the other man’s.

  And he held it, and felt the same feeling in Sherlock’s grip: _I don’t want to let go_.

  But then he did, and Sherlock was turning swiftly away and walking over to Mycroft. And then he was boarding the plane. And John wanted to look away, and he tried to, but he made himself look up at the last second, to watch as the figure disappeared into the plane that would part them forever.

  _No_.

  John didn’t say anything. He just remained standing where he was, in the position he’d last touched Sherlock Holmes, as he stared after the love of his life as he left him forever. And he was falling, but this time… this time there was no one left to save him.


	3. I Need You, Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Sherlock comes off the plane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really sure how trigger warnings work, or exactly how much angst is deserving of a warning, but I suppose I should warn you that there is... angst?

  Then Mary was by his side, holding onto him like she knew he needed it, and Mycroft was stepping out of the car, talking through his phone, claiming that it _was not possible_.

  And John almost didn’t care what was happening. He was so lost in his own world of grief that he barely understood a word Mycroft said as he told him and Mary about the screen around London.

  Then the next thing he knew, Mycroft was calling Sherlock’s plane back, and for a few minutes John allowed himself to hope he was truly coming back to him; that everything would be okay, and they could speak again and he could hold him in his arms the way he knew he ought to from the moment he returned from the dead the first time, and he let himself place the pieces of his heart delicately back into place, in the hope that maybe it would heal again.

  And then the plane landed, and John had to physically stop himself from running to it in relief, the world righting itself again, his vision clear and his mind free, for the first time in _months_.

  But then Mycroft was ushered onto the plane hastily, and his heart plummeted in his chest at the looks on everyone’s faces.

  A few minutes passed, and John grew more and more impatient as his anxiety grew, and just as he was about to set off in a run towards the plane, there was a bed being carried down the stairs of the plane, and-

                “Oh my god.”

  A figure, so unmistakeably Sherlock, lay in the portable bed, unmoving.

  John ran.

  His eyes blurred with the beginning hint of tears, and the colours around him distorted and merged and a deafening ringing rung loudly in his ears. And then he was standing at the bed, heaving breathlessly and looking at Mycroft with confusion, and what he was sure was his unsuccessfully hidden fear, silently asking him what was going on, begging internally that it was all going to be okay.

  But then an ambulance arrived and took him away, and suddenly John was in a car, Mary by his side, holding onto his arm. He couldn’t feel or think or hear anything but the resounding ringing and his own heartbeat, low and fast in his ears. His whole body was numb and vacant, and he couldn’t summon a proper thought. So instead he stared out the window mindlessly and waited for everything to happen for him.

                                                                                                                       

  John wasn’t allowed into the hospital room.

  Mycroft had tried half-heartedly to convince people to let him in, but the doctors wouldn’t listen, and advised _strongly_ that only _close family_ should be allowed to enter.

  _It’s funny_ , John vaguely thought, _if we’d wanted to we could have probably convinced the doctors to let in Mary by telling them she were his wife... I wonder what would have happened if I’d said I were his husband. How would Mary have responded to_ that?

  And suddenly the door was opened and John was snapped out of his absent-minded musing, and forced himself to pay attention.

  Mycroft walked out slowly, deliberately, towards John.

  His eyes looked empty and sad at the same time, as though he too, almost felt the way John did, that he merely hid it well.

  And then Mycroft was staring at him both seriously and sadly, and John felt his stomach clench tightly and the world stilled around them for a heartbeat before Mycroft spoke. And the _moment_ he did, John knew _exactly_ what he was going to say.

  Not an explanation, not an expression of pain, just simply,

                “I’m sorry.”

  John literally stopped breathing.

  He stopped blinking.

  He stopped thinking.

  The ground seem to swallow him whole.

  He may have been falling.

  He may have fainted.

  But whatever happened, all he knew was that he didn’t understand anything except for this:

                _He was gone._

 

  John didn’t cry.

  He didn’t think, either.

  After waking up in a hospital bed, he refused to talk, and instead, he lay where he was and stared passively; blankly at the wall.

  Then Mycroft came in to see him and Mary, who had apparently been sitting in a chair next to his bed. He talked about things that seemed much too complex for John’s mind to comprehend, so instead John lay and ignored the muffled voices, drowned out by the loud ringing in his ears, and the emptiness that surrounded and fogged his mind.

  And that was all he could do before he was closing his eyes; drowning in the emptiness that enveloped him, and falling back to sleep, whispering softly into the shadows,

                “ _Sherlock_.”

 

  John managed to get out that night.

  He was discharged from the hospital and driven home by one of Mycroft’s workers, once again following his every word blindly, and all John found he could do was stare out the window and watch the world as it flittered past him, not really looking; not really _seeing_ it anymore.

  He couldn’t bring himself to _look_ at Mary, let alone speak to her, so they both remained in mutual silence, unbroken by nothing but the hum of the engine of the car that vibrated beneath them to announce its presence and the sounds of the wheels as they came across bumps on the road beneath them.

  When he got to his flat, he glanced around the rooms quickly, not thinking about anything but the sheer _need_ to go to sleep.

  So without an explanation or an indication that he was aware of Mary’s existence, John walked into the bedroom and dropped onto the bed, barely managing to undress before falling into yet another dreamless, thoughtless sleep.

 

  The day afterwards, John accomplished in getting up. He woke at around 4am and moved from the bed to the living room where he sat, empty and unthinking, on the sofa, staring at the telly that once showed the recording of Sherlock leaving a message for him when he’d last “died,” almost remembering the video in his mind’s eye, only, in a strangely vague and absent way.

  Then at about 9am, Mycroft showed up at the flat.

  Mary opened the door and let him into the house. Mycroft looked grim and exhausted and John was vaguely bemused by the foreignness of the emotions in Mycroft’s eyes. The he walked into the living room and John acknowledged his arrival with a brief glance at his figure, before resuming his mindless emptiness and former task of staring at the wall.

  Mycroft cleared his throat and looked down purposefully at the paper in his hand, and said, “For Dr. Watson,” and placed it carefully on the coffee table in front of him.

  John barely understood what that meant, and he almost didn’t care. But then the brief thought of _from Sherlock_ went through his mind, and he found himself less uninterested and almost alert at the prospect.

  When Mycroft had left and Mary had left him alone in favour of finding a more enjoyable task than watching the shell of her husband brood, John finally looked back at the letter and leaned over to reach it, dragging it towards him with shaky hands and holding it in front of him, reading and rereading the front; bracing himself for whatever came next.

                _Dr. John Hamish Watson_.

  John breathed in and out slowly, shakily, until he drew a long, deep breath and turned the envelope around, opening it with shaking fingers, before pulling the paper out of the envelope and unfolding the paper carefully.

  Closing his eyes to brace himself one more time, he breathed _in and out_ again and again, before reopening his eyes and beginning.

 

_Dear John,_

_In truth I don’t know where to begin, so I suppose I’ll start with this:_

**...**

The air from his lungs had long since abandoned him. The silence that surrounded his body added to the hopelessness that had invaded his mind since the moment Sherlock had jumped from that fucking rooftop over two years before. Everything felt cold besides the burning in his eyes and on his cheeks as the tears ran down them slowly. But the stinging in his eyes was nothing compared to the aching in his heart that had started now that the numbness had been lifted.

  He stayed in the same position for hours, lying on the couch, alternating between staring at the roof and closing his eyes around the pain when it became too overwhelming.

  Then the sky became dark and the light in the room faded to a dull gloominess, and he was left staring at the now blue-ish wall and watching the stars through the window, out of his peripheral vision, when his mind suddenly cleared, his vision sharpened and the fogginess in the room seemed to evaporate, and a clear, new idea took hold of him suddenly.

  Standing up slowly and carefully, he walked out of the room quietly and into his bedroom before returning to the living room with a piece of paper and a pen in hand, and sitting back on the couch, he looked to the paper lying flat on the coffee table in front of him, waiting patiently for his initiation

  Then, taking a deep breath, he started writing.


	4. Dear Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's letter

Dear Sherlock,  

  I can’t say there’s much that I can say (or write) that will help this situation. You’re dead, and there’s nothing that can be done change that, now.

  I know it’s a ridiculous thing for me to be writing this, and I would have said that I’d think you’d scoff at the ridiculousness, had I not just read a letter of you doing roughly the same thing, yourself. Besides, in some ways it did help a bit last time when I updated my blog with messages to you, though it was more for everyone else than actually for you, seeing as at the time I really did believe you were dead.

  But this time it’s real. You can’t fake your death twice, especially not like this. You bastard, if you’re alive this time I’m not forgiving you.

  Of course, _of course_ I want it to be true that you’re still out there, living, it’s the only thing I could possibly want in the world right now and I can safely say probably for the rest of my life, too. But I would never forgive you for this, for what you’ve done, especially with that bloody letter.

  That letter...

  Something that I will never understand, Sherlock, is why you did it. Why would you kill a man to protect my wife? You _knew_ , you _must_ have known, _should have known_ by now that I care about you and need you so much more than anything else in the world.

  You’re an idiot.

  What you did for her wasn’t necessary. Mary never came to you for help or redemption. If what I guess is true, she probably didn’t think she was saving your life by shooting you that night we broke into Magnussen’s office, did she? I don’t know if I’ll ever understand _why_ she did it, but watching your interaction in the empty houses of Leinster Gardens and listening to you try to convince me that she was on your side gives me the strong impression she didn’t truly think what she was doing was right. Right for her, maybe, but not right by either you or me.

  It certainly would have kept her secret. I wouldn’t have known at least for a while that she was the one who’d killed you or that her past consisted of actual murder. Do you know how much easier it was before you jumped off that roof? How happy I was? That day, and every day following it, I’ve only wished for the ability to go back to before you jumped. I wish I could have just appreciated life before, the way I ought to have, because that was something special, Sherlock, and undoubtedly the best time of my life.

  I just wish I’d known that when it mattered.

  It’s funny, really, how true it is to say that you don’t know how much you need something until you lose it, and how appropriate it is now, especially this time because now I really do know what I’ve lost.

  God, I need you, Sherlock. _I need you_.

  I’ve needed you from the moment I first met you. I needed you to save me from the absence of the war; I needed you to save me from what I was after invalidation. I needed you to _save me_. And you did. That’s all you ever did for me, Sherlock. You made me angry or upset or stressed _constantly_ because you are _so hard to live with_ , but I’d rather live like that than not at all. And that’s what you gave me. You gave me a life I wanted to live. _That_ is why I owe you so much.

  I was so alone, and you _saved_ _me_.

  Ironic, that it was you who left me so alone that day at St Barts. The day my world fell apart all over again. And then I was left with nothing and _no one_ until I met Mary. And then everything was a lie. Your death was a lie, Mary was a lie. _You_ were a lie. You came back from the dead like it was nothing, like it hadn’t fucking _destroyed_ everything. But I forgave you because I had no choice. Because you’re the only person I need and you’d come back, so what else was I supposed to do?

  It would happen again this time, Sherlock, and I hate that. I hate that I need you so much that I’d let you do anything and still forgive you for it.

 

  I love you.

 

  I love you, you bastard.

 

  It’s been so many years since the first day I met you, so many years since that ridiculous night you lured me into so perfectly; the way you caught me when I was falling and dragged me into a new, insane and _brilliant_ world of your own creation. The one I fit perfectly into, because it was perfect. We were perfect.

  It’s been so many years since I first realised I did genuinely need you. And only slightly fewer since I first realised I was in love with you. _In love._

  But it was a hopeless case. You were Sherlock Holmes, the machine who feels nothing for anyone, the machine that cannot love. An amazing brain without a heart. You couldn’t _love_ me the way I want you to, the way I’ve _always_ wanted you to. And that’s what kept me from telling you.

  But your letter changes everything.

  Why couldn’t you have _told_ me that before? I am so very capable of love and you _knew that_. I never said that I was opposed to anything with you; _I_ was the one who showed interest in you the first day we spent together. And you _knew_ it. You told me you were flattered by my interest but didn’t want anything more, so I never tried again. But there was never anything stopping you. So what could _possibly_ have prevented you from telling me for _so long?_ It would have fixed all this. I’d never have stayed with Mary if I knew I had the choice to be with you, because that’s what I wanted, and it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

  I know how that makes me sound, like I’m an awful husband and an awful person, and maybe I am. But Mary isn’t exactly the “perfect wife” either, and if she cared about me she’d know that it was best for me to choose you, and she’d let me leave.

  Because I loved you, and everyone knows it. _Everyone._

  I love you. I love you. _I love you._

  I wish I could say that I wish I’d never met you. I wish I could say that I hate that I fell in love with you. But I know it’s not true, it’s so very far from the truth, because I _needed you to be there. I needed to fall in love with you_ _or I would never have survived_.

  And now I’ve lost you again.

  And now I need you all over again, and it _hurts_.

  It hurts more than you could ever imagine.

  Sherlock, please. Please come back to me.

 

  I know that’s something you can do. You did it last time, so you must again, _please_.

 

  You were the best man, the most human, human being I have ever known, and I need you back.

  I was so alone and I owe you so much. So there’s just one more thing that you need to do for me. One more thing, Sherlock. For me. Don’t be dead. Just for me. Just stop it.

  Stop it.

  Come back, Sherlock.

  COME BACK.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I've never written anything from John's point of view before.  
> If you have feedback for how I could improve on writing more like him and less out of character, I'd be grateful.  
> 


	5. Thank You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2nd part of John's letter

  There aren’t many things I have trouble saying, but talking about emotions is one of those things.

 

  I could have told you, I almost did, but you stopped me because you didn’t want anything more than a friendship.

  And I suppose I understand that now. When I met you, you had no friends.

  People did like you though, and I’m not sure you ever really realised that.

  Greg ( _Lestrade._ Yes, that is his first name, you idiot) did care about you. I don’t think he saw you as human the way I got to, but he knew you were a good person. Or at least he knew that you had the potential to be one.

  I think Greg thinks I turned you into that; a good man. Either that or he just believed I had the best chance to.

  I can’t say I agree that I did that.

  I supposed over the years I knew you I did see more and more of a human, but then you would yell at someone or be a complete _dickhead_ again, and I thought, _well, maybe not_.

  But I suppose that was a stupid way to think.

  What I said at the grave was the truth, and I will always hold true to that. You are a human, and you always have been. Whatever made you cold and distant wasn’t your fault. Besides, I think in some ways you really are more human that the rest of us, anyway. You don’t- didn’t lie to protect people’s feelings. Maybe that really is just something that we should all work on being better at.

  The point is you are just as much of a human as everyone else. I wasn’t what made you human, or what made you a good man. I just wish I’d had the decency to remind you that were, sometimes, because I think, really, it’s all you ever needed to know. You just needed to be told that you were a human and that you were good (and good _at it_ ) and it might’ve made you understand it was true.

  But whatever it is that you really believed, or what anyone else believed, I know you’re a person -alive or dead- and you were a _good_ one, and that I am very much in love with the good person that you were.

 

  You had incredible talent, and incredible kindness and an incredible personality, whether or not anyone else wanted to believe it. You were extraordinary and yes, insanely intelligent (though _that_ you fucking knew, you twat) and definitely very, very beautiful. You were so beautiful- _are_ so beautiful.

 

  If what you wrote was true, then of course what you felt was requited, you idiot.

 

  I love you.

 

  _I love you._

 

  Sherlock, you bastard, wherever you are. Cheers.

 

Yours, too, and as sincerely as I’ll ever be,

                                Doctor John Hamish Watson.

 

P.S. Thank you.


	6. To The Very Best of Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long. I wish I could say the quality of this chapter could make up for the time gap, but unfortunately it doesn't.  
> This type of story-writing is my weakest, so sorry about that.  
> On a positive note, this is literally the first half-decent fanfiction (and story, omg) I have ever finished, so, I am proud of that.  
> Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

  The air around him seemed lighter, easier to breathe now. The letter wasn’t particularly expressive, but John had never been good at that before. Although of course he’d always assumed he’d be better at writing about emotions than Sherlock would be, but then again, Sherlock was a surprise at every turn, so John shouldn’t really think it was that strange. He was virtually impossible to predict.

  Nothing about him ever seemed constant. He didn’t always feel at peace with work, but then most of the time he’d be unbelievably happy while he was at it. And then there were other times when he didn’t have a case and he’d be perfectly comfortable with doing nothing but sitting with John in the living room and reading (not for long, mind. There may have been a few moments of this peace, but he’d be back to his whining at least by the next day.) John adored those moments. He adored them with every ounce of his being. Sherlock, when he wasn’t restless or utterly captivated by the puzzle, and working day and day out to solve it, was quite beautiful.

  Not that he was ever _not_ beautiful, it was just that he’d always seemed extra spectacular in those few precious moments John had had the privilege to share with him.

  Sighing quietly, John folded the paper delicately and tucked it into the envelope he’d gotten out the night before, when he’d felt too emotional and incapable of continuing to write, and he’d stopped for the sleep he knew he definitely needed.

  Then, laying the envelope flat on the coffee table in front of him and grasping the felt-tip for the last time, he wrote as delicately as neatly as he could.

                _Sherlock Holmes_

  It took him a few days to actually decide what to do with it, but three days after he’d finished, it suddenly became very obvious.

  He woke up late that morning and found himself thankful when he saw that the bed next to him was unoccupied, and that the rest of the house followed suit.  It somehow felt much easier to do this with Mary not around.

  He shifted carefully on the mattress until he was sitting on the edge of it, his legs hanging over the side, his feet just above the floor. Then he slid off it, his feet landing flat on the floor, and he stood up quickly. Glancing around the room he found a shirt hanging on a chair resting against the wall.

  Moving slowly around the flat he got dressed and ready to leave.

 

  The cold air was the first thing John registered when he stepped out the door and onto the first step. Adjusting his scarf and jacket slightly before shoving his bare hands into his pockets, he set off at a brisk walk through the small front yard, and out onto the pavement.

  His mind raced and his quick steps echoed slightly through the near-empty street as they hit the footpath, a faint uncertainty lingering at the back of his mind as the cold wind rushed against his face and his nose and cheeks filled with blood in attempt to warm them.

  Minutes passed and suddenly John found himself standing outside 221 Baker St, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, his right hand closed around the envelope.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked up to the door and rung the bell, then stood back and waited silently until it swung open, revealing Mrs. Hudson.

  She looked worn and tired, but smiled her brightest smile when she saw him standing on the other side.

 Stretching her arms out to the side, she engulfed him in a quick hug before stepping back into the foyer and gesturing for him to follow her in.

  He stepped inside and she closed the door behind him and then turned to him. ‘Tea?’ she asked as brightly as possible.

  John smiled and shook his head, laughing slightly, ‘no thanks, Mrs. H, I was just here to collect something of mine.’

  ‘Ah, very well, dear,’ she smiled and departed to her own rooms.

  John smiled gratefully at her retreating figure, before glancing at the stairs up to his old rooms and his smile faded slowly.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked up the stairs.

  When he got to the second floor, he stopped and stared at the closed door in front of him.

  Then he inhaled slowly to steady his slightly too-quickly beating heart and began walking towards it, fishing in his coat pocket for the key to his old home.

  When he heard the _click_ of the door unlocking, he opened it slowly and stepped into his old rooms.

  He glanced around and the piles of old cases, paper and books still thrown across the room and balancing precariously on the tops of shelves and the table in the middle of the room.

  Sherlock’s laptop was still out, apparently untouched since Christmas last year when he’d last used it, before he’d killed Magnussen.

  John walked around the corner and into Sherlock’s old bedroom, opening the door slowly to reveal the seemingly untouched bed and drawers.

  Then he took four steps into the room until he was standing by the bed. He took the letter out slowly and held it out in front of him, reading and rereading the words on the front.

  Then he placed it carefully on his old pillow and whispered, ‘to the very best of times.’

  Then he turned around and left.

 

  By the time John reached the front door of his own home the wind had frozen his face and neck, and tears were burning his eyes, threatening to run down his frozen cheeks.

  The sound of the lock clicking as John turned the key in the keyhole rang simultaneously with the unlocking of the front door at the flats of 221 Bakers Street.

  By the time John had hung up his cloak, walked into the living room and spotted the plain white envelope on the table, a tall, dark, cloaked figure had made his way up the stairs to 221B Bakers Street.

  John walked over to the envelope slowly, eyeing the paper carefully before picking it up and turning it around.

  Walking down the hall to the bedroom, the tall figure stopped at the doorframe, glancing around the room before his eyes landed on the envelope, the two words _Sherlock Holmes_ glaring into the room in hard, black handwriting. Taking two steps, he landed by the side of the bed and reached out to open the letter, unfolding the piece of paper and beginning.

  A small white note slipped out of the envelope and landed on the floor at John’s feet, and he reached down to pick it up.

                _Baker Street._

_Come at once_

_If convenient._

  John smiled softly, warily as he turned the paper around, his heart rate increasing in anticipation.

  When he’d turned around the letter, the soft, delicate writing glared out into the room and he murmured, ‘If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.’

  Without a second thought, he dropped the letter and ran to the door, shoving on his coat as he ran out into the street.

  And in the darkness of his old flat; John’s next destination, Sherlock looked up and turned to face the door as he whispered softly.

  ‘ _John_.’

 


End file.
